


Vicarious

by INMH



Series: Merry Month of Masturbation Fills (2017) [12]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Accidental Voyeurism, Humor, Incest???, Masturbation, Multi, Sexual Content, Should I be warning for that??, Should I be warning for that???, Strong Language, w/e I'm going to hell anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-29 11:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10853253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: As it happens, it’s not just the family-friendly memories that make it into Desmond’s head.





	Vicarious

**Author's Note:**

> Yup. Everyone’s getting an mmom fic, apparently. YOU get a smut fic! YOU get a smut fic! EVERYBODY GETS TO STAR IN A SMUT FIC!

_Sick_ , Desmond thought bleakly. _I am **sick**_.  
  
Sure, Rebecca might have skipped Altaïr and Ezio’s sexual conquests when he was in the Animus, but that didn’t stop some of the other memories tucked away in Desmond’s DNA from making an appearance every now and then.  
  
Like when he was trying to jack-off, for instance.  
  
Altaïr married Maria, and they had a long and… _Healthy_ marriage. Maria really, really enjoyed taking Altaïr’s dick, and Altaïr really, really enjoyed having sex in the great outdoors, especially in stacks of hay. And Desmond knew that only because more than once he’d been treated to what he _thought_ was a daydream about a beautiful woman, but was actually- surprise!- a memory of his great-great-great-etc grandpa banging his great-great-great-etc grandma; regularly, enthusiastically, boy-oh-boy-do-they-want-a-baby kind of banging, if you were curious.  
  
And that was just Altaïr and Maria.  
  
Ezio’s sexual history would have made the guys who wrote the Kama Sutra look like virgins. If there was anything Desmond had learned in watching Ezio’s memories, it was that Ezio Auditore had been the Grand High Poobah of the Sluts in Renaissance Italy- heck, Desmond wouldn’t be shocked if Ezio’s mastership of the carnal arts was known from Italy to Turkey, since everywhere the guy went he either ended up sticking his dick into someone, or someone ended up sticking something into _him_.  
  
Desmond was losing track of the wet-dreams that he could attribute to Ezio Auditore _alone_.  
  
See, the problem was, a guy’s body does not always _care_ about where the sexually-pleasing stimulation was coming from- you push the right buttons, and an erection pops up (literally). Desmond was a bartender for fuck’s sake, he’d been groped by drunk women more times than he could count as he was throwing them out. Did he _want_ to get a boner when Cynthia-from-Delaware-for-her-sister’s-wedding was slurring about how she wanted to ride his dick? No, not really, in fact he found himself counting down the seconds until he was going to call the cops on her if she didn’t stop touching him. But the boner happened anyway, didn’t it?  
  
Same deal here.  
  
Desmond’s body did not especially care that the people in those smoking-hot memories were his ancestors- heck, if anything, the fact that he was experiencing Altaïr and Ezio’s memories of the situation pretty much guaranteed that he was going to be aroused by the goings-on, because they most _definitely_ had been.  
  
He tried to be fucking virtuous.  
  
He tried to reduce the amount of things on the list of reasons why he was going to hell when he died.  
  
He _tried_ , damn it.  
  
But months on the run from Abstergo with no chance for dating or casual sex, and then not even being able to jerk off because memories of his dead ancestors getting frisky kept popping into his head whenever he grabbed his dick, had made Desmond sexually frustrated- and that was the mild way of putting it. The explicit way of putting it was that Desmond had woken up humping his pillow because he’d unintentionally channeled a memory of Ezio enthusiastically plowing some dude over the edge of a kitchen table sometime when he’d been in Rome.  
  
It was a particularly lengthy memory of Ezio with Cristina that did him in. Desmond was treated to two eager virgins excitedly exploring one another’s bodies, and they had fricking _marathon_ sex that night that, inexperienced or not, was very… Very…  
  
God damn it, _arousing._  
  
There, he fucking said it.  
  
He was _aroused_ by the memory of his ancestor fucking his girlfriend.  
  
He was _aroused_ by the memory of his ancestor fucking his wife.  
  
_Sick, sick, sick,_ Desmond thought, head aching where it pressed against the tile of the bathroom wall, eyes squeezed shut, as he worked his cock without finesse or pretense. _I am fucking sick_.  
  
If Shaun or Rebecca- mostly Shaun- found out about this, God fucking help Desmond because he would, quite literally, never hear the fucking end of it. His arm spasmed, his elbow smacked the tile and he damn near bit through his lower lip in his attempt to not yelp. Making noise would not be good. Not at all.  
  
As he jerked off, pictures intruded into the forefront of his mind as he bled with Altaïr or Ezio, ones that Desmond would _really_ rather not be thinking about or seeing right now, but oh-fucking-well, if he gave a fuck at this point this wouldn’t be happening. Still, there were limits to what level of deviancy he was willing to let himself (or his ancestors) sink to today. For instance:  
  
A memory of Maria in bed, and it occurred to Altaïr that his wife had a very nice pair of breasts-  
  
_No, no, no, no, fuck off Altaïr_.  
  
Then there was an image of Ezio leaning over Cristina as he fucked her-  
  
_Stop it. Stop. Okay, Cristina’s not my ancestor, so it’s not as bad as Maria, but still, stop it, Ezio._  
  
And then there was an image that confused him until he realized that it was Ezio looking up at a guy whose dick he was sucking-  
  
**_Holy_** _\- Get behind me, Satan, I swear to fucking-_  
  
“Fuck!” Desmond spat, and came all over his hand.  
  
He slid to the floor, legs shaky, and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  
  
“Are we done?” Desmond whispered balefully. “Are we? Can I jack off in peace now, or will I forever be subjected to watching the two of you _plow_ your-”  
  
_BANGBANG._  
  
Desmond nearly had a heart-attack.  
  
“Desmond, are you alright? You’re not Bleeding, are you?” Rebecca sounded alarmed, and Desmond covered his eyes.

“I’m fine, Rebecca, I’ll be right out.”  
  
As he buttoned up his pants, Desmond logically understood that Altaïr and Ezio had been dead for centuries and that it wasn’t their fault he was being forced to explore their memories and bleed with their minds. They had no control over it, and he doubted they wanted their great-great-etc. grandson watching their memories of them getting it on with their wives/lovers.  
  
That didn’t stop Desmond from flipping off the ceiling, just in case.  
  
“Fuck you horny assholes. Seriously.”  
  
-End


End file.
